


FORCES

by giorococo



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Conflict Resolution, Fix-It of Sorts, Golden Age (Berserk), Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of other Berserk characters, Nobody is Dead, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-03 23:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14580069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giorococo/pseuds/giorococo
Summary: Post-departure Guts and Griffith have The Talk. Lots and lots (and lots) of angst from Guts. A veritable mountain of it. After conflict resolution they kiss and make up. Nothing explicit, (yet).





	FORCES

**Author's Note:**

> * * * IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER (9/19/2018) * * *   
> I need to address this, lmao. For a month this has been bothering the fuck out of me ... how did I get this fic so wrong? After some thought, I figured it out and it illustrates very vividly the differences in the manga and the anime(s). Simply put, I wrote this before reading the manga (and after watching the 97 anime) because I was so COMPELLED by these two. Thus ... Guts is ridiculous, Griffith is totally OOC, it's entirely misinterpreted imo. 
> 
> BUT. I'm leaving it up here with this disclaimer. I just want everyone to understand why this feels so off. I do not like this fic anymore, and even though I was wildly off-the-mark, I couldn't contain my feelings and wrote this up super fast. I binged Berserk '97 in ONE DAY (I know, shut up)--therefore, a lot of my impressions were deadass wrong. For instance, I didn't realize what a complex character Griffith was, so, I wasn't as forgiving with writing him because I didn't REALLY understand his pain or deep love for Guts. I knew I loved Griffith ... but ... with only the anime exposure, it really shows. Like it's obvious as hell. 
> 
> Jesus--anyhow, I apologize! And thanks for liking this shit regardless. I do think some of the cute parts are alright still, lol <3 And yes, I am caught up on the manga and am in hiatus hell w the rest of you.

It had only been a day since he'd left.

Staying on with the Band of the Hawk had become too painful for him. More specifically, being around _him_ had become painful. The great divide between he and Griffith had become too wide, too treacherous, the water rapid and black. There'd simply been too much between them to even know where to begin navigating their long ignored issues. Griffith, once accessible and easygoing, had become important, and important to the right people. He'd also become busy, with boring upper class bullshit, networking and nosing with royalty and dignitaries. This is what he wanted, this is what he'd always wanted.

Not Guts, though.

Guts just wanted to swing his sword and give every battle his all. That in itself gave him purpose for as long as he could remember. Till now he’d never even questioned this. It had always been good enough in the past. Was that enough of a purpose, though? Guts set to find out. Surely his true purpose had nothing to do with groveling or kissing the right asses to rise through the ranks.

Griffith was set, his goal clear and so close to being within his grasp. What use was Guts to a man like him anymore? He wondered. Was he expected to be a servant? A bodyguard? A loyal idiot dog?

Guts scoffs at the thought. _"Gimme a damn break."_

He wished it had gone differently. The cruelty Griffith showed at his departure was still a very fresh wound. He almost wished he hadn't bested him in combat ... but what, he thought, would that have accomplished? _If_ he’d lost (and stayed at will), it would mean more endless, boring days of court life, at best. At worst, his full worth to Griffith would be spelled out for him, fully exposed. A tool. A tool Griffith would choose when and where to use, and exactly how useful he'd be. Where and when he'd die, just as he always said. Guts, furious with himself, didn't want to believe this. He'd always wanted and expected more. He had believed there was more weight behind those years of camaraderie, even if never directly acknowledged. Why would Griffith ever … say … some of the things he’d said to him if he regarded him merely as a soldier? As if this were only a _job_ for him.

He grits his teeth, recalling every ugly detail of yesterday's painful events. The embarrassment, shame, rage, digging a deep black well in the pit of his stomach.

He feels like a fool. _I should have known better,_  the thought rattles around in his mind ceaselessly, keeping him on edge. It's not as if Griffith ever said he gave a damn about him. Yes, he'd saved him multiple times, he'd personally attempted a rescue mission to save Guts from the monstrous Zodd. He’d even jumped into the line of fire for him, suffered injuries so Guts wouldn’t have to. What courage that must’ve taken, given his physical stature ... but ... was that strategic, or was there something more to it? He tortures himself, finely combing through every instance of Griffith's scarce affections that he could remember. He didn't think he'd be in a position where he wished he could remember more. More intricate detail. Nuances. The idea of losing him, _forever,_ had been at the front of his mind all day.

Griffith. Damn it. It's not as if he ever _actually_ entertained the idea of them being together. Maybe he'd _thought_ of it once or twice, but surely this was the outcome he should've expected, right? Guts isn't the type of man to stick around idly feeling useless. He supposes he hadn't thought of what would become of he and Griffith once he'd made it this far (or maybe he had, but didn’t want to get lost in the ‘what if’s of an uncertain future). Certainly this was inevitable. The only possible outcome if neither party knows where they stand with each other.

Personal feelings aside, if he couldn't be a good soldier, what was the point? Of course he left. He'd only stayed as long as he did because, well, he loved the fight. He felt like it was a good cause too. He was helping Griffith, the most important person in his life, achieve something, and that felt right. Things worked that way for a long time. Years. Eventually the battles grew scarcer, though, and Griffith became more out of touch. It felt like the right time to move along.

That night at the ball, after the Doldrey battle. It was that look … that smile Griffith gave him, in his mind it was a silent acknowledgment, a thank you, _“I couldn’t have done this without you.”_

Guts felt like he was in mourning. The ghost of nostalgia loomed in his thoughts like a dark sticky phantom. He had never been fond of nostalgia. Dwelling on the dead past was pointless and painful. Useless. Thinking of it spiked a terrifying rage inside the man, a steadily burning ashen rage tinged with sadness and frustration. And regret.

It'd be best to sleep it off, the more rational side of him suggested. His mind, however, insisted on being restless and bleak.

So much silence.

He didn't know if he could sleep surrounded with all this silence, here, in the thick lonely woods. He'd grown accustomed to the banter of the men, the cheerful, lazy, drunk noises littering his periphery on most nights amongst the raucous soldiers. This silence is new, and ugly. How could silence be so loud? The quiet itself, another unrelenting reminder of his departure.

The fire needed more wood. He didn’t want it to burn out during his slumber. Thankfully there was no need to chop any, the surrounding area was littered with twigs and odd bits of wood. He’d taken to whistling while gathering, it was too quiet. How many hours had it been since he left? Since he’d wandered off and away from his friends, his only real family? Was this what he really wanted?

 _Shit._ He knew, for sure, the persistent inner dialogue would take a long, long time to quell.

 

His woeful reverie shatters.

... Was that shouting he'd just heard? _It couldn't be._ He'd expected Rickert or Casca to come after him, so it wouldn't be a surprise if he's being honest. Hell, he half expected Corkus to come after him, an attempted murder perhaps. This thought actually gave Guts a laugh. If he knew anything, he knew Corkus was a coward, a bitter and angry little shit of a man. Of course Corkus had reason to hate him, Guts had killed an ally of his, but wasn’t it Corkus who’d initiated that embarrassing failed attempt of a robbery? Idiot. If anything, were Corkus to attempt murder, he'd hire someone.

Guts' attention snaps to the sparse field beyond the dense treeline. Yes, that's _definitely_ shouting he hears. He lets out a long, tedious sigh. He wants to be left alone. He does not feel up to the task of any three of those possibilities, for various reasons.

 _"Guts!"_ the clumsy, haphazard shouting continues. His hackles raise. A tremor explodes up his spine and he feels the blood freeze in his veins.

It was Griffith.

No. _No._ Let it be anyone but him.

But there was no mistaking it.

There he was, clad in a heavy white cloak on horseback, now trampling recklessly through a pathless, darkening forest. Griffith had spotted his fire and was making a beeline toward him now. Guts could only stand and stare, breath bated, a million rampant emotions wordlessly wreaking havoc in his head. He drops the firewood he was holding, it nearly hits his foot. Motionless, the man can only watch this unfold in front of him. He knew it was pointless to hide. The fire behind him surely cut a mean, large, unmistakable silhouette.

"Guts! Oh, thank God ... I've found you. I wasn’t sure I would.” He's still a good twenty yards away, quick heavy hooves smashing away the distance between them. Guts steels himself as best he can. _God,_ is he not ready for this.

Griffith trots up, regal as ever, and slides off his horse shakily. On closer inspection, Griffith is not very well-composed at all. His hair was a mess. The whipping wind had matted it, and there was plenty of sap from trampling through the woods. The man's face was dirty too, it appeared that he'd been crying ... but Guts refused to believe that. Maybe it was sweat. Surely. Or frostbite. _Sweat or frostbite_? _Good grief._ Either was more believable than tears. This was Griffith after all. He was alone. Guts remained silent and still, he didn't know what to say or do, so he just stood and glowered at the edge of his bedroll, now adorned with twigs and sticks of varying size.

"I've been ... looking for you." Griffith ventures, slightly out of breath, unsure of how Guts will react. He removes his kidskin gloves and attaches his horse's reins to a low-hanging branch. He begins a tremulous path towards Guts. Both men are apprehensive. So much damage has been done. Whatever serendipitous reunion Griffith had presumably imagined was certainly not going to happen. The thought pissed Guts off.

"What are you doing here?" Guts asks blankly. He's shaking, barely containing every awful thing welling up inside. He hopes Griffith doesn't notice.

"I needed to find you, Guts," he states, with the soft even-toned eloquence of an angel. It’s infuriating.

“I'm not going to be your pawn, Griffith. Not anymore.”

"Guts," He steps closer and gestures kindly toward the larger man, outstretching a hand. Guts furrows his brow, disgusted, taking a reactionary step back.

"Don’t _touch_ me. You made your intentions clear. What you said yesterday, and what you said that night at Promrose. I didn't want to believe it."

Griffith drops his hand, looking a bit defeated. Guts wonders what he'd expected. Is he really this cruel and manipulative, or is he just fucking clueless?

"Guts … I've been riding since last night, please allow me a moment to unwind and gather my thoughts. I'd like to talk to you. About everything, openly." His demeanor is serene, but his eyes are piercing. Guts doesn't respond, he can't respond. A few minutes pass. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again, Guts. I couldn't live with myself if that were indeed the case."

He wants to tell Griffith to fuck off.

Guts, brooding, continues to brood. He actually begins to feel a little ridiculous over how many emotions the guy puts him through.

The only moving thing between them is warm breath in the chilly air of dusk. Guts eventually unroots himself, feeling a bit awkward and now too self aware. He sits on his bedroll, busying his hands with a pocket knife, studiously cleaning his fingernails by firelight.

"Do you understand why I left, Griffith?" Guts nearly growls, breaking the long silence. He bores a piercing glare into the smaller man across the fire. 

Griffith lifts his chin, regally, opening his eyes slowly, his long silvery lashes casting subtle shadows across his high cheekbones. His gaze is now firmly countering Guts’.

"At first I did not. I thought it was abandonment," he says, easily, leaning against the frosty trunk of a nearby tree. "I hope you can understand my reaction a little better knowing that. It was Corkus. He let it slip while berating you and I figured it out ... then I went to Judeau for confirmation." he pauses, thoughtfully. "Guts ... I'm a little shattered, if what I think to be true is true. I thought you knew me better."

"Why would I assume us to be _friends_ , Griffith. You've never shown me any real examples of friendship." He throws the knife into the shallow snow and it sinks into the earth with a _chk._ "Everything between us is tainted with your damned _goals_ . You treat me like a friend one minute and an asset the next. You’ve already said enough … how dare you come here pretending we are _friends."_ Guts had knicked a finger while angrily cleaning his nails, it bleeds more than expected. The fresh, abundant blood ushers in a relevant memory. “Do you know … how it felt … hearing that shit? Immediately after murdering a man, _and_ his innocent son, for you, as a _favor?_ Because I’m your _‘friend’?”_ Every word is spoken slowly, full of intent and broken trust.

"Guts ... I did not intend for young master Adonis to get mixed up in that … and it was indeed a tragedy. His death was unintentional … he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can only hope that you believe me. As far as the words I spoke … what you heard at Promrose was business, spoken to the _princess_ of a kingdom I am trying to acquire, it was not intended for others to hear. But ... it was not a lie per se.” Griffith looks to the sky, maybe silently asking the universe for the correct response. “You know me better than anyone, and you _are_ my friend. I thought you knew that."

His eyes set on Guts, pointedly, but Guts isn’t sparing him the favor of a glance.

"I don't fuck with mind games. No, I don't know. And why would I assume _anything?”_

"Guts ... look,” He shifts slightly against the tree, expression hardening. “You know my goals are paramount. I say what people need to hear in order to achieve that. But what you heard at Promrose had nothing to do with you. I hold you in a different regard than _everyone."_ He sighs, flustered, following a brief pause. "You know how much you mean to me, right?"

The way Griffith states it so matter-of-factly is so immediately offensive to Guts that he almost finds it comical. It takes him a minute to reply, despite his anger. He leans back, putting his weight on his arms behind him. He cocks his head, rolling it back onto his shoulders, narrowing his eyes. "What the fuck Griffith.” He sneers. “Are you fucking _serious?_ How do I know you're not just saying what you think I ‘need to hear’?"

Griffith falters, visibly. This kind of confrontation is new for him. The tension is rising in the atmosphere, his nerves are piqued, he’s actually sweating a bit. He doesn't want this to escalate. A pissed off Guts is terrifying, frankly, and inconsolable. Griffith, without fail, knows what to say as a tactician, but not so much with … whatever this is.

 _"Tch."_ Guts spits on the cold ground. "Yeah, you made it pretty fucking clear how much I mean to you. I'm your ace in the hole soldier. I can't do that shit anymore. Not for _you."_ Guts turns his attention to his bedroll, fully spreading it out against the nettled and frosty ground, pushing away stray twigs. It hadn't snowed in a few days in this part of the woods, and most of it had melted, thankfully. He'd cleared a good bit of it away from his fire pit. He sits, draping his cape around his shoulders, examining the cut on his finger that has since clotted. He looks like a wounded, cornered animal, ready to bite. Annoyingly, it crosses his mind that it might look like he’s pouting, but maybe he is pouting. Maybe he deserves to.

"Perhaps ... I don't know how to have a friend. Or how to treat a friend properly. People don’t _get_ close to me, Guts. I did not consider your feelings, I admit."

Guts is tired of this discourse. Yet, the hurt in him yearns to hear this, despite his mental exhaustion. His eyes instinctively dart toward his sword. His sword, the only true constant in his life. The only tangible thing he can consider a comfort, now especially. He doesn’t know why his eyes are drawn to it, perhaps his growing vulnerability has him feeling uneasy. It takes all his strength to even listen right now without forcing Griffith away from him.

Guts, even at his best, is a broken man. As much as he wants to hear this feelings shit from Griffith, he’s equally repelled. Every instinct is screaming at him to create distance and flee from this man before he’s hurt again.

"Listen, Griffith. I don't know how plainly I have to say this. I thought we were friends.” He lowers his gaze. “Your words hurt more than any physical wound I've suffered. And I think that’s saying a lot."

Silence.

Griffith lets out a painful sigh, furrowing his brow. "You're ... I--,"

"I won't stay if you don't respect me. It's that simple. I care about your opinion of me, but I'm nothing more than a pawn in your grandiose fucking dream,” he says, gesturing mockingly with flourished hands. “A very _strong_ pawn, but fodder is fodder. I can't do it anymore. I fought my doubt for years, hoping I wasn't delusional. It's too painful. I hoped I meant more to you than that."

"Guts, …” a strained whisper.

"You scared me yesterday. You showed your hand, your true nature. It's worse than I feared!" Guts inhales through his teeth. _"I've never felt so fucking used."_ He hisses out, bitterness and resentment not withheld. "What can you possibly say, Griffith? This is your own doing."

"You're right, Guts. This is my doing. You have every right to be angry."

"So what are you doing here? If you understand, what the _fuck_ are you doing here." It was more of a statement than a question.

"I couldn't let you go and leave it like that with so much left unsaid, Guts. My behavior was regrettable. I owe you some honesty."

The larger man makes a sour face at him over the fire. "Well? Spit it out, or get out of here."

"Doesn't that statement alone show you how important you are to me?" Griffith, for all it’s worth, seems earnest, if not irritatingly naïve.

Guts scowls, curling a lip at him. "You gotta be kidding me. You’re so damned self-important! Do you even hear yourself?”

"How do I put this,” he trails off momentarily, collecting his thoughts. "You ... complicate things for me, Guts." Another brief silence passes. "I have very strong feelings for you. I always have … from the very beginning. Casca knew it, she loathed you for it. And yes, you are an integral piece of my army. Therefore an integral piece of my dream. I do not have a contingency plan, minus you. Truth be told, my plans are on hold until I figure out how to navigate this without your input and dependability. Honestly I never foresaw you leaving ... so, where to go from here, strategy-wise, is daunting to say the least."

"That's your problem. You're not saying anything I don't know, Griff."

Griffith clears his throat, screwing his eyes shut. Hearing the less formal nickname stings a bit and catches him off-guard. He tries to make sense of his tumultuous thoughts. The wrong words here could result in another split, with worse consequences.

"I reacted poorly."

"No shit."

 _"Guts."_ He shoots the man a pained, frustrated look. "I'm trying to mend this. I know I’ve made grave errors. Words are hard, please ... try to be patient with me."

"Say it or don't. It's not like you to mince words or waste time." Guts spits out, coldly.

The silver haired man draws in a deep breath with pressed lips. He's frustrated with these failing negotiations and Guts' curt replies. He closes his eyes, exhaling. "Look, Guts. I only know how to take what I want forcibly. I've learned that I can't be that way with you, not anymore. Not only does it not work, it's not right, because I respect you. You leave me defenseless. You see right through me. You're the only one I _allow_ to see right through me. I'm comfortable with you, even with all my awful truths laid bare. You make me feel like … you make me want to slow down. I want to enjoy life, _outside_ of my dream ... with _you,”_ He pauses, carefully considering how much more to reveal, and how to reveal it. He decides on brute honesty. “Telling you this is the most vulnerable I’ve ever felt with a person, war negotiations included." He pulls a twig from his hair, letting it fall to his feet. “I’m serious. That’s how important you are to me.”

The breath in Guts' throat seems to catch on an escaping heartbeat. Is that even possible? A myriad of emotions re-emerges. Confusion, anger, hurt. Comfort, elation, sorrow. A rush of blood. Why does Griffith cause so much angst in him? Why is he saying all this, and why does it feel so good in Guts' ears?

Instead of a thoughtful reply, the swordsman just gives Griffith a wounded nasty look from beneath his heavy brow. But despite his best efforts, he can't hold that gaze for long ... it's too revealing. This is too raw. These emotions ... are too intense for him. Guts has never been good at masking emotions.

Griffith gets the feeling he'll have to continue lest Guts completely shuts down. The man is clearly battling an unseen war in his mind. The air hangs heavy with so much yet unsaid. It's uncomfortable, a dangerous precipice.

"I don't know how to be subtle, Guts. But, you make me want to learn."

 _"Tch,"_ Guts, lying down and propped up on bulky fist, scurries to hide his obvious turmoil. He rolls away from the fire, putting his back toward Griffith. "You got a fucked up way of showing it.”

Griffith frowns. The words stung. Guts' body language does not go unnoticed.

It's a cold night. The thick silence between them is exacerbated by the frequent crackling of the fire. Griffith's breath has created condensation in his lashes and bangs. The crisp, hollow air has turned it into a frosty frame, surrounding his pale porcelain features in delicate lace. The white crystals forming in his immediate field of vision make the man keenly aware of how cold he is now. The nervous sweating had left him moist, coupled with the unfortunate slight breeze now tearing through him, it was too much. The sun had gone down and the fire was closer to Guts than himself. He exhales dramatically. He's exasperated and exhausted. Guts was unrelenting ... though, he knows he has every right to be. He deserves this. He's beginning to understand.

He pushes himself away from the tree he'd been leaning on, crunching his way through a small patch of remaining old snow. He sits. It was no surprise to Guts, Griffith moving closer. The crunch of snow was a dead giveaway. However, Guts didn't expect this proximity. Griffith sat against his back, knees up, palms facing the fire.

"How do I know this isn't bullshit?" Guts mumbles.

"You don't, I guess. You know I've never lied to you though, yes?"

"Oh fuck off, Griffith. You should just ... get away from me." Neither of them budge, though. Griffith sighs, again, unmoving. Oh, but this is a night for sighing. The fire continues to crackle, protesting against everything cold. Griffith adds more kindling, just to see the sparks, to hear the pops. Maybe that's their way of sighing too, Griffith muses.

"Guts, saying these things isn't easy for me. It's a matter of necessity. I don't want to go on without you."

"What? What the fuck Griffith, why _now?!"_ He hadn't meant to shout it. His words are harsh, mired in pain. He doesn't even like to admit to himself how much pain he's in, much less express it to another person ... _this_ person. It seems to all be coming out though. It's been repressed for far too long. Guts is shaking again, it's not entirely from the cold.

A shift in movement. Suddenly ... gently ... two small, pale hands are embracing him from behind.

Guts' immediate reaction isn't a pleasant one.

He jumps to his feet, whipping around, anger flaring neon red. He looks down at Griffith accusatorily. The smaller, startled man struck wide-eyed and motionless. This is too much. How dare he touch him.

Griffith sits with his pain, silently. He closes his eyes, drawing his knees in and propping his chin upon them. He looks hurt. Against his own will, Guts' rage subsides quickly. He just can't stay angry, seeing the effect of his outburst. Griffith looks so small, and so sad. Even that in itself is an affront to Guts' suffering. How dare he look so fragile? Guts feels like he's being manipulated just looking at the beautiful man, but that's nothing new either. The complex feelings leave him feeling shredded. He wants to rip his fucking hair out. All this honesty and feelings shit is overwhelming.

Griffith appears to have surrendered after the harsh rejection. The heels of his hands are now nestled firmly in his eye sockets.

Guts huffs, rolling his eyes to the night sky. This is pathetic. He can't stay angry with a vulnerable Griffith. He wants to hold onto this anger though ... without it he's weak. But ... what if all of this was true? As far as Guts knows, Griffith has never known love in any sense of the word (outside of physical, presumably). Therefore, has never had to confront something like this head on. Maybe this is real. He looks ruined, defeated. And the more Guts looks at him, the more he's compelled to comfort the smaller man.

Flustered and unsure what to do or say, he rakes his hand through his short black hair and sits back down next to a silent, shivering Griffith.

"I'm sorry, Guts." Griffith, usually so put-together, can't even look at the man. Guts wonders if this is the first time Griffith has sincerely apologized for his actions.

"It's not okay."

"I know." Griffith laments.

"The pain you caused me ... will never be forgotten."

Griffith can't reply with words. His body language was enough of an affirmative reply that he understood. He knows.

"Griffith ... I left because I wanted your respect. I wanted to prove my worth to you, and myself," he inhales deeply. "I wanted you to look at me the way I look at you. I want to stand toe-to-toe with you. You're the only person I can't handle looking down at me. I don't give a shit what _anyone_ else thinks ... you know that, right? I thought you'd understand. But you brought up that _'I own you'_ bullshit." He grits his teeth, remembering the look in his eyes. "Why? Why did you go that far?"

"I know I hurt you, Guts ... I panicked. It was an act of desperation." The admission pains him, it's filthy, and it's true. “I thought … maybe, if you saw how serious I was about keeping you by my side, it’d be enough. I didn’t expect to win that duel … but it was a last measure, I was out of options. I am not excusing it, but I only know force. It was a harsh lesson for me. As much as I hate to admit it, I am still a young man and I make plenty of mistakes.” His posture goes slack, making him look even smaller. “Guts … I do not know how to balance my head and my heart when it comes to you. I committed vile sins against you in a moment of weakness. I’m accustomed to getting what I desire with little effort. I've never ... had to ..." he trails off. “The sound of you saying goodbye echoed in my head. It was a catalyst, it was finality. I knew I’d lost everything at that point.”

His tears, though few, are now drying on his pale cheeks, but the depth of his sorrow is evident on his sullen, streaked face. The light in his eyes is gone. Guts remains silent.

"The reality of losing you ruined me. So, yes, I wanted to hurt you in that moment, I thought you were abandoning me. I didn't foresee these feelings … nor this regret. I'd never experienced true _loss,_ until that moment.” He stalls momentarily. “In a way, I am grateful that losing you emboldened me to say what needed saying. Your departure galvanized my feelings for you … clear as day."

 _"Grateful."_ Guts scoffs, shaking his head. "What a joke."

"Guts, _please._ I'm being honest with you. You're only hearing what you want to hear." He's frustrated, this is so tiring. Guts is being incredibly difficult.

"What is it you think I want to hear?" he challenges, not expecting Griffith to have an acceptable answer.

"Pain." Griffith picks up a twig and rolls it between his fingers. "You want to hear acknowledgment that I've hurt you and that I understand what I've done. I _do._ I took you for granted. I did not appreciate what I had with you until you left." Griffith seems to crumple, the gravity of his own words hitting him hard. A single tear rolls down and lingers on his jaw before falling off and sinking into his sleeve.

"Mmm." It's better than Guts had expected.

Griffith wipes the away the offending trail with the back of his palm and looks toward the horizon line. His statuesque profile flickers bright against the dark line where the snow meets the sky. He's beautiful, solemnly contemplative. Guts doesn't think he's ever seen something so breathtaking. This man. A burning bright star in his mundane life full of sorrow and slashing. He comes bearing apologies and honesty, as close to groveling as you can imagine from a man with such a godlike presence. All Guts ever wanted was to be noticed by him. This realization races through him like liquid wildfire and grips him by the collar to yell in his face. Griffith is _here._ Griffith, himself, sought him out, rode alone, recklessly, blindly into a forest, to apologize. To ease his mind. He is definitely noticed by this man. Griffith wouldn't do this for anyone else.

Guts swears he can feel cracks forming in his glacial heart. He swears he can feel a trickle of new blood, something different, coursing through him like rushing water under a frozen stream. It feels exciting, but not entirely welcome. He’s not sure he’s okay with this. It feels unsafe. He can feel himself losing this fight. It feels as if his soul were slipping out from beneath his feet and stealing his breath along with it. Guts was aware he had a heart, but he didn't know a heart could feel quite like this. For now, he dares to allow himself to think that somebody _… loves …_ him.

Griffith, his head swimming with turmoil, regret and loss, never expected what happened next.

Slowly, carefully, Guts reclines onto his bedroll, pulling Griffith with him into a strong, very needed embrace. Suddenly trapped between his arms, Griffith can only blink, bewildered, before taking in the full gravity of what was happening. A few moments of stillness. His breath unbating, Griffith finally embraces him back. It feels good. The stillness. This new understanding and warmth. And finally, most of all, this closeness both men have studiously avoided for years.

"I forgive you." Guts mutters quietly into Griffith's sap, twig, and leaf-encrusted hair.

The words, though desperately wanted, rip through Griffith like a dull serrated knife. He doesn't want Guts to so easily forgive his crimes. Despite having to fight tooth and nail to get the man to understand and believe him, he feels unworthy of the man's forgiveness. It falls into place too easily. He feels like a criminal.

Guts, at his core, just wants his love. Griffith breaks at the thought. Fresh, quiet tears absorb into Guts' shirt. It's a familiar, comfortable smell. A deliberate, powerful mixture of sweat and cinder. He thought he'd never smell it again. That thought too, destroys him.

"I don't deserve your forgiveness, Guts," he manages to enunciate.

"Probably not."

Griffith agrees inwardly. Outwardly however, he must've made a faint, weak sound because Guts is now giving him a woeful, crestfallen look. So out of character for this charismatic monolith of a man. Guts makes another realization here. Griffith trusts him. He suspects everything he's said is true, if he is privy to seeing the man in such a state. Truly, he must be important to him.

 _Or,_ Guts is too easy. Both are possible, but for now ... he's willing to take this risk. For him, and only him.

"I mean it. I probably shouldn't forgive you Griff. I might even live to regret it. I won't ever forget what you’ve done … but I do forgive you.” He pauses, bringing up two fingers to tilt Griffith’s face towards his own so their eyes meet. “Please don't make me regret it." There is only pain behind that statement, it truly is a plea.

Griffith swallows and nods, his expression painful, tears now spilling freely. "I'm so sorry," he chokes out. They search each other’s eyes, unsure what to do with these feelings and words and physical contact. Neither wanting to give in, but, at the same time, so very badly wanting to give in.

"I know."

Guts holds him close, silently. He presses a soft kiss to his forehead. This only serves to elicit another round of quiet, understated tears from the smaller man. Griffith, truly, does not feel worthy of this man's forgiveness and he's having a hard time processing what's happening. His chest is tight, there's a rock in his throat. He tries to verbalize his thoughts.

"I've never known genuine kindness, or love. I've only known pain, lies ... the manipulation you’ve seen is a direct result of my upbringing. I've never _loved_ a person. I don't know how, yet. I want to be honest with you now, Guts, because I _need_ you. I didn't realize it … until it was too late."

He looks down at Griffith, the man is practically falling apart his arms. He brings a hand to his sculptured jaw, caressing his jawline and cheek with a broad thumb. Griffith looks into his eyes earnestly. Ice blue, lined with sapphires, unbelievably diamond-like. Guts' chest is pounding, God, Griffith looks so .. soft. So sweet. A broken, supple doll.

The significance of all these damned heavy words seems to slip away, the physicality of this situation is winning, fast. How long has he wanted to see Griffith like this? How many times has he imagined holding him? Guts can scarcely believe this is happening. For him, Griffith is easy. These barriers were all his own.

"It's not too late." He whispers, pressing his lips onto Griffith's.

Their lips are a little dry from the wintry air, but it's warm, soft, and perfect. It's exactly as Guts imagined it would be.

Griffith's response is barely a whimper, followed by a breathy exhale. He's so grateful. He knows he’ll remember this kiss forever. He'd never felt such genuine tenderness.

They embrace, indulging themselves for what feels like the first time in either of their lives. Timid kisses find purchase on each others’ lips. Each movement between them feels like a question, and permission is easily granted to every movement with a resounding 'yes'. It’s slow and awkward at first, but a new desperation keeps them locked in place for upwards of an hour. Neither of them want this to end. It's chaste for the most part. Every moment filled with endearing wonder and breathlessness, moreso than unhinged passion.

The first signs of sunlight spill effortlessly across the icy azure landscape. Griffith’s horse whinnies and hoofs at the ground, making both men suddenly aware of where they are ... they’d been lost in each other. The desperation eventually slows, Griffith settling into Guts’ arms and muscle-laden chest. It’s warm. He doesn’t want to move. Perhaps never again. Ambition and time are so cruel.

“Guts,” Griffith says, … at least this is what Guts assumes due to how muffled the noise is, shoved into his shirt. Griffith’s face emerges from his chest after Guts moves an arm. He kisses the man’s neck softly. “Can I ask you something?” he asks, lips still lightly pressed against Guts' stubbly neck.

“Mmh. Yeah, what is it?” His voice hurts, it’s raw from so much talking.

“Why would you assume that I don’t see you as an equal?” Griffith tilts his face up inquisitively, he looks ... hurt.

Guts pulls away a bit to look at him. They lock eyes for a while. Guts doesn’t know how to respond, initially. His throat feels dry. Now it’s his turn to feel completely exposed.

“I uhh …,” Guts looks away, but Griffith is patient with him. He just gazes at him, blinking, unmoving, until he's able to find words. He’d never been close enough to notice just how long his lashes were. How thick his black stubble grows in. Guts actually has a great complexion under all that dirt, countless scars aside. He wants to kiss him again. But, he remains patient. “Do you?” Is all Guts can muster. Lost in thought, Griffith had to remember what the question was.

“Of course.” He remembers. It’s hard to keep a linear thought in the man's embrace. “Do you assume that I only respect people of noble upbringing?”

“No. _Hell_ no.” Guts expels, forcefully. “They’re mostly shit … I can’t imagine you respecting them, much less consider them equal.”

“Exactly. So … who do you think I was referring to when I said that?” Guts just stares at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer, baffled. _“Guts._ You’re my only friend, think about it.”

“But,” Guts furrows his brow and attempts to protest, but is shushed, his lips are being squeezed together by one of Griffith’s hands and he’s sure he looks like a ridiculous fish. His eyes wide, he blinks helplessly back at the radiant man. Yes, he’s overwhelmingly radiant even covered in sap and dirt. This perceived brilliance seems to be a hint of joy, however.

“You’re so clueless ... Guts,” Griffith gives the man a half smile, then a whole smile, his eyes calm and mirthful. Griffith then grasps his face in his small hands. “Do you really think that I could love a person I don’t consider an equal?” His smile isn't gone exactly, but it's a serious question.

Guts’ face flushes, he’s stunned into silence. He’s sure his heartbeat has stopped. If it weren’t for the heavy thrum of blood in his carotid artery as a reminder, he wouldn’t be sure of anything life-related right now.

Griffith kisses the scar on the bridge of his nose, but Guts is still in shock. “Give me more credit, Guts.” Guts smiles at him, sheepishly. He’s blushing and has to shift his gaze. “Give yourself more credit, too.”

He nestles into Griffith, holding him tightly around his slim torso. Griffith cradles his head, running a delicate hand through his hair, slowly. Nobody’s ever … _pet_ … him before. It feels nice. It's comforting.

“You’re an asshole, Griffith.” he grumbles, half jokingly, into the smaller man’s collarbone. Griffith can feel the smile being pressed into his flesh, so he laughs in return, a big laugh. It sounds so good in Guts’ ears. This … was the Griffith he'd fallen in love with years ago that he thought he'd lost. Kind. Funny. Ridiculous. The charismatic, quirky guy with the weird but genuine smile. He took care of his people, and his people loved him. Guts loved him, too.

Guts withdraws to look at him. _God, he’s so fucking pretty,_ muses Guts. Threading his fingers through Griffith’s luxe silvery hair was something he’d always, _always_ wanted to do, so he does it. He follows that with a slow, lingering kiss. He groans low into it and Griffith grasps his forearms, the man’s big hands now tugging on Griffith's hair to expose his neck.

“Gh, … G, _mmh,_ Guts …” Griffith attempts coherency.

“Mmm … what is it?” His lips are moving, he’s kissing and softly sucking on Griffith’s neck between words.

 _“Hahhh, …_ Guts, … I want to do this for … hours, … for centuries,” Griffith gasps, feeling a sudden hard suck on his neck punctuated with hot breaths on wet skin, and _oh God,_ the intoxicating noises it's making. It sends jolts of lust through him like lightning. This is a kind of desire he hadn't experienced before. Perhaps because sex had only ever been a tool for him. It'd never been a result of ... longing.

“And? What’s the issue.” He swirls his tongue, licking hard before sucking again. He gently presses his teeth against the man's thin pale skin. Griffith huffs, a stuttered moan escapes him against his will. Guts, impatient now, can't get enough. He pulls a slick trail up toward Griffith's lips. “We have time,” Guts is kissing him on the mouth again, and Griffith feels his eyes roll back involuntarily, it feels ... too good. Guts' tongue slides against his own and the new feeling has the hair on his arms standing on end.

He really and truly does not want to stop, though he must. He breaks the kiss, but it takes a while. Lots of small kisses follow the big ones. “Yes … we have time,” Guts untangles his fingers from the soft loose curls of Griffith's hair. “But … I’m really tired Guts. I can barely keep my eyes open ... I'm sorry,” It clearly pains him to admit it.

“Huh. Well, ok. But, this is _my_ bed. I don’t know where _you’re_ sleeping.” Griffith thinks he’s serious at first, his jaw dropping at the nerve of this man. He quickly realizes he's joking and pouts at him with an exaggerated frown. Guts gives him a cocky grin. “Well, get in,” he turns back the top layer of his less-than-ideal bedroll and gestures grandly at its entrance. “After you, _Sir_ Griffith.” Griffith punches his arm before crawling in and settling against the larger man under the warm wool.

It takes a very, _very_ long time for either of them to fall asleep. Despite the comfort. Despite the exhaustion. There’s something between them. Something _hard_. Guts knows he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. He might be later … he’s pretty sure Griffith will give him shit about it. Cursing his hormones, he holds Griffith close to his body. He doesn't care that the man's hair is fluttering into his nose. He doesn't care about anything right now other than _this._ Nothing is guaranteed in this bleak world, and the odds are usually unmercifully stacked against him. He decides to be selfish, just this once, choosing to hold onto something important to him. And he does, possessively.

Eventually, they do fall asleep. It’s a long, deep and welcome slumber.

Now that the impenetrable barrier of unsaid words is destroyed, they do indeed, have time.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu if you want! you can find me on twitter and tumblr: @murdersounds   
> thanks for reading despite my HUGE blunders with this fic lmao


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